Unspoken Sermon
by Rabidus Femina
Summary: Duo writes Hilde a letter detailing the mourning of a comrade and a haunting lullaby. DxH! This is my first 'angsty' story! Please R/R!


Unspoken Sermon  
  
by Rabidus Femina  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own GW or 'Eleanor Rigby' by the Beatles.  
  
Word of Caution: One of the few serious AND non-romance fics I've written that I liked. Beware, I'm listening to the song as I'm writing, so it may be a tear-jerker. Ambiguous character death expected, maybe Trowa. Duo's point of view, reflective and introspective, a letter to Hilde.  
  
  
  
Dear Hilde,  
  
You know why I'm writing you this email. It's been one week tonight. One week since "the accident." To say we weren't crushed would be a blatant lie that I would be ashamed to tell. So boys aren't supposed to cry; young boys aren't supposed to be guerrilla war tools either. Maybe that's why he died. A gundam pilot has finally been slain, just like so many innocent people. He'll always be a martyr to us. We fight now in his memory, and for all the people we have loved and lost.  
  
  
  
Ah, look at all the lonely people  
  
Ah, look at all the lonely people  
  
  
  
It was just depressing as all-hell when we got back to Quatre's estate. I remember; Quatre walked into his house, walked right past Rasid, grabbed the First Aid kit out of the top kitchen cabinet and sat down and, hands shaking, lost six buttons removing his shirt to dress the nasty looking wound that scared his pale shoulder. He tied the dressing violently tight, and then gave the rest us this look. This awful, pained, selfless look. He was hurting, physically and emotionally. He looked so vulnerable, and yet, at the same time, the strongest I've ever seen him. The bitter resolve was right there, on his face. He'd selflessly help the rest of us grieve, and we knew it. I turned away from that searing, even look, and my eyes stung from forming tears and that stare. I dropped into the chair beside Quatre and buried my face in my hands, shoulders hunched. My elbows ground against the wood of the little round breakfast table as I rubbed my eyes with the tips of my fingers. Seconds later, two other sets of hands, one pair large with a violent gentleness, Rasid's; the other pair soft, yet firm. Quatre's trembling fingers dressed the cut on my forehead, and then the electrical burns on my hands and arms. Rasid managed to wriggle me out of my shirt, and Quatre wrapped an ace bandage around my bruised ribs. All without moving the shield from emotion my hands provided me.  
  
  
  
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been  
  
Lives in a dream  
  
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door  
  
Who is it for?  
  
  
  
I lowered my hands to watch the other remaining pilots seat themselves and begin dressing their wounds. No one spoke, but Quatre darted from one to the other, Rasid helping, the two forcing the usually stoic and independent young men dress their numerous flesh wounds. Wufei's eyes were closed, hands patiently folded on the tabletop, letting Quatre and Rasid take off his shirt and salve and stitch his wounds. He didn't move. A human statue, an effigy to human resolve. Wufei was hurting. We all were, but damn if Wufei would let us see it for ourselves. I almost admired him for that. Almost; but somehow, I thought him a fool and a coward for that, also. Then again, I am one myself. The foolish, grinning coward with a machine that plays God.  
  
  
  
Heero kept his eyes open, but his eyes fastened on a different person every so often; probing, feeling, boring right through to the soul. I looked away from his stare, too. I couldn't bare to be looked at, especially with my shirt off, my wounds in plain sight. My soul is marred, just like my skin. I don't want anyone to pour salt in those wounds. Not those wounds. Quatre bit his lip as Heero looked at him, but stared right back. Shining blue topaz met harsh, black sapphire and the sparks from the grindstone flew. They had always trusted each other, but Heero had put a trust in Quatre that he'd put in no one else. Maybe not even me. That doesn't bother me. I couldn't possibly have the strength to stop Heero Yuy from doing anything. Quatre's strong because he's weak, if that makes any sense. He knows who he is and what he wants and he's self-confident enough to show us exactly how he feels. There's no macho crap with him. We all respect him for that, however reluctantly.  
  
  
  
All the lonely people  
  
Where do they all come from?  
  
All the lonely people  
  
Where do they all belong?  
  
  
  
Anyway, he's dead, gone, not of this earth. Yes, the man only known to us as Trowa Barton has met his match. His bullets ran out and he was too far away to send us a signal. Quatre rushed to his aid, but he was too late. We all were. Trowa's tough as nails, so for us to be too late is quite an insult, quite an insult. But I'm rambling. I have to tell you what spurned this little midnight letter. Quatre and his damned violin.  
  
  
  
Father McKenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear  
  
No one comes near.  
  
Look at him working. Darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there  
  
What does he care?  
  
  
  
During the night, as I lay in my bed staring up at the ceiling, I hear things. Quatre's violin, for one thing. He plays it from dusk 'til well after midnight. He can't sleep until sheer exhaustion takes him over, his mind along with his body too buried in grief to care what it's doing to itself. I hear him at night, those soft, sad strains. I close my eyes and I see him, the dim lamplight falling on his blonde hair, flashing off the sinew of his bow. I see the tears as they pool under his lashes. It's sad; so, so sad. I just want to grab him, yell at him, hit him, do anything to stop his tears and his music. But he's not the only one keeping me up at night.  
  
Wufei cries out in his sleep in Chinese, English, even a mix of both. He calls out things that frighten me. Smarmy oaths, curses, chants—anything, it appears. I know what he's seeing under his eyelids. The same thing I see under mine. Fire. Death, the fall of a good fighter and a damn good kid. Wufei is a person of honor, of duty. He felt it his duty to protect himself and the rest of us; no matter how much he refuses to show it, I know, as I'm sure Trowa did, that he truly trusts us, holds us dear as friends and comrades. Wufei feels like he's let Trowa, us, and himself down. Totally, completely, and irrevocably down. It kills him. Then he always takes out his small katana and does his exercises until dawn, his soft footfall of his turns and steps putting me to sleep.  
  
I don't even want to tell you about Heero. Don't even want to think of what he's going through. It may surprise you, but he's the most human; the most in-tune with his feelings as any of us. He's just an extremely private person. See, around dawn, I can always hear the frightening click of a cocking gun. Night after night, Heero cleans his gun, and I wouldn't be too surprised if he's held that shiny gun up to his temple, and contemplated about pulling the trigger. Night after night, I close my eyes and I brace myself for that sickening bang-thud…..but it never comes, thank God, it never comes.  
  
  
  
All the lonely people  
  
Where do they all come from?  
  
All the lonely people  
  
Where do they all belong?  
  
  
  
Me? I pray. I run my hands over the cool beads of my rosary. I pray hard, wishing the music would end. Pleading for it to end. But I know it won't. It can't. Not until we stop being so frightened to reach out to each other, not until we heal each other, letting the others heal us in turn. I know this, but I'm a coward to my emotions. The gundam pilots are only human, Hilde. Yes, your invincible, knights-in-shining-armor are just a couple of scared, screwed-up kids who know how to pilot big, walking massacres. It almost makes me question if helping you escape that court- martial, taking you into my life, was such a good idea. I'm still the Shinigami, the God of Death. Trowa didn't deserve that. Neither do you; but I'm too scared, too twisted, to let you go, to let you get away. I need you.  
  
  
  
Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name  
  
Nobody came  
  
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave  
  
No one was saved  
  
  
  
I'm so sorry to be writing to you like this. Truly sorry. But I wanted you to know why I haven't written, haven't called. I was afraid I'd spill, just like I'm doing now. But you know what? I'm sick of being scared. I'm giving up on keeping a stiff upper lip. I'm going to Quatre's room right now. I'm going to talk to him, tell him about how I feel. I'm going to go to Heero's room, and Wufei's, and tell them to put their weapons down. We're going to talk. Talk and trust and understand, so that Trowa's sad fate won't be repeated. Somehow, and I know this sounds crazy, but…..I feel like this was a test Trowa set before us. A test to see if we were as strong as we thought. Something to the effect of, 'Guys, we need to pull together. Quatre had the right idea. Listen. Listen and learn from my mistake of staying distant.' Well, I hope we passed the test, because as sure as you're reading this, I'm coming back home to you. I need a break. A break from death, a break from war, a break from the lullaby. But first, I've got some things to say the guys. Wish me luck, babe. Love you.  
  
  
  
All the lonely people  
  
Where do they all come from?  
  
All the lonely people  
  
Where do they all belong?  
  
Yours truly,  
  
Your Shinigami,  
  
Duo Maxwell. 


End file.
